It's Seven Wonders I've Not Died of Boredom
by VintageManniqueen
Summary: A short one-shot told from Madison's POV. Rated T for language and sass. Misty/Cordelia


**I would just like to clarify that Cordelia and Misty are my babies and I love them so much. This is not a character hate fic! This is just a campy, lightly Foxxay story written from Madison's POV. Written for a friend who dared me to put this song in a fic.**

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Berets are _so_ out of style. Like, velour Juicy Couture tracksuits or Crocs on Rodeo Drive out of style. Wearing a beret even in an artsy kind of way went the way of Old Yeller when Carrie Bradshaw went into syndication, which was like, a generation ago. So needless to say, if anyone in my daily life would be dorkin' it up in one, it would be fucking Cordelia. It's not like we don't have enough going on in this Suck Fest house- she has to be seen with us while wearing a goddamn pink beret. It's not even a cute color. This thing is vomit pink.

I try really hard to feel the fashion vibe she tries to put off. I didn't realize there was a right way and a wrong way to do the 40's in designer couture, but _God_ she manages. I mean, there's conservative chic, and then there's "No wonder my husband couldn't knock me up." I'd really love to turn her loose in Frederick's and see what she comes up with. it would almost be like a character study. I could learn how to play a boring old prude for when my career really goes down the shitter when I'm in my 50's and the last of my youth escapes me.

You would think that being a witch would give you some kind of forever-young superpowers. The only thing I can honestly say I learned in this Hell hole is that I'd rather age gracefully than be Fiona. But I guess my tune might change when I find my first wrinkle.

Who knows? Maybe I'm wrong and Ms. Foxx is a fox in the sheets, and maybe she wears dirty lingerie under those dreary duds. She does strike me as a black lace kinda gal. I guess I could just ask Swamperella.

Speak of the bitch and she shall appear.

I've spent the past 15 minutes putting an unnatural amount of effort into _not_ calling Cordelia out on that stupid hat. I've been so good for so long. But ever since I bit it and came back, my little word vomit affliction has become some Exorcist-style projection shit.

I can feel the things I want to say right behind my teeth. And my teeth are way too pretty and expensive to get knocked out by Bayou Barbie. I'm teetering way too close to actual death to risk lying in a coffin for the world to see without any teeth. The tabloids would say I lost them to meth, I'm sure.

Oh, Jesus. Fucking gag me. Misty is staring at Cordelia with this dumbass look on her face. I actually think I might literally vomit. Does she know how obvious she is? Like, you can actually see it her face that she's creaming her panties from watching Cordelia do _nothing_. I would say she must have been raised in a barn, but I think a barn might actually be an upgrade. And she's humming. Why is she fucking humming? Oh- oh now she's singing.

_ "She wore a raspberry beret. The kind you find in a second-hand store. Raspberry beret! And if it was warm she wouldn't wear much more. Raspberry beret! I think I love her."_

Okay, that's it. I can't swallow this anymore.

"You _would_ like that French cow patty, Lesbo."

"I think Miss Cordelia's hat is cute."

They're gazing at each other like this is the Lady and the Fucking Tramp and that hat is fucking spaghetti.

"Isn't that a Prince song?" Cordelia asks in that shy tone of voice that irks me.

Misty's grinning. "He and Stevie are great friends."

Of course it came back to Stevie. This bitch doesn't know anything unless it's about Stevie. She could probably tell you about her blood type if you asked.

I'm rolling all the things I want to say around in my mouth and my fingers are twitching for a damn cigarette. As I'm about to tell Misty I can enchant Cordelia's legs to open for her, my own lesbian weirdness stumbles into the room with the grace of a newborn giraffe and I can't handle this situation another fucking second.

"I'm peacin' out before Macklemore and Gold _Dirt_ Woman make me crave my return to the grave."

I light a cigarette and take a bottle of whisky from the table before I proceed to lock Zoe out of our bedroom.


End file.
